The Unholy Family
by theendsofmay
Summary: Amara De' Medici believes in her family and their city above all else. To her Rome is the last place on earth anyone would want to be but when she is sent to be under the care of Cesare Borgia her whole life is uprooted, "For the good of the family." Is the love she bears for her family enough? A tale of survival, heartbreak and the scandal of Rome. *Suck a summaries* Based in S1
1. The poisoned chalice

**The Poisoned Chalice **

There is a wall in my home that holds a mural. My mother would take me to look at it when I was young and remind me what we were fighting for. What I am still fighting for: Florence.

They're all there.

My father;

My mother;

My grandfather;

My Uncle;

"Amara."

Startled I turn my head from the artwork towards my brother, Piero De' Medici. His face fallen into an unfortunate slump which doesn't suit him. He wasn't blessed with a beautiful face and the constant frowning didn't help.

"I'm sorry." I smile hoping to lighten the mood that had descended upon us.

"Pope Innocent is dying." He tells me planting a quail's egg into his mouth.

"This is news?" I ask confused. Pope Innocent VIII had been dying for weeks now. It was the main topic of conversation in our palace.

Piero places his fork down into the wooden table and sighs. "The news is that they do not believe he is going to pull through."

I bite my inner lip and speak: "I would not discard God's power so easily, brother."

"This is not about God, Amara."Piero seems more frantic than usual as he attacks his food. "This is politics."

"I will not speak of a dead man before he is dead, Piero." I raise out of my place not wanting to anger him anymore. He's been on edge ever since his wife went into confinement with his first child. I blame nerves.

I start my departure from the room. "Sister, please." Antonia – my elder by two years – pleads calling after me while looking between her two siblings.

I don't bother turning back to face her, I'm hungry anymore.

* * *

I return from riding in a mid-day sweat.

Florentine heat in August is fierce. It bakes my skin and that of my horse so much that we are forced to return early before I had fully found the strength to forgive my Brother. I don't know what raged the fiery passion inside of me, maybe it is that somewhere deep inside I know that a new Pope breeds tyrants.

"My Lady."

"Pedro." I greet the stable hand. I slip from the saddle to look around the maddening courtyard. "What's happened? What have they heard?"

"The Pope has breathed his last, My Lady." His eyes shifted from my face to the floor searching for my reaction.

"When?" I press, begging for more information.

"I do not know, My Lady." He is back to looking at the floor again.

I hand him the leather reigns of my horse. "Thank you, Pedro." I stalk towards the Medici House before spinning of my heel. "Make sure he gets water, Pedro."

I race through the door and towards Piero's quarters where he sits with Machiavelli – the Florentine ambassador.

"I suppose that you've heard?" I say looking between the two of them.

"Yes." Piero answers.

"And?" I raise my eyebrows high excited to hear more news. "Who is to be our new voice of God?"

"It's not decided yet, dear sister." He tells me. "The Collage of Cardinals are selecting as we speak."

"I best pray for them then." I grin dipping into a small curtsy.

"I do not believe that praying will affect the Collage of Cardinal's decision." Machiavelli voices in a monotone.

"Perhaps," I nod. "But I do believe it shall lift my conscience to do so."

* * *

We hear nothing but rumours from Rome for days.

Then, on August 11th, five days after Pope Innocent's death we receive word.

The election over, Pope Alexander Sixtus had been announced the new ruler of the Church and all that came with it.

That evening I sit in my apartments combing through my dark hair when my Nurse Maid enters.

"Darling," She takes my hands and twirls me to face her. "Sweetling." She caresses my face with her soft hands. "Your brother wishes to see you."

"What is it now?" I scoff looking into her soft blue eyes. They are warm as they always are. I miss them when away, with my life so full of harsh tones it is good to have such softness.

"He wishes to talk about the new pope with you." She smiles taking my left hand and raising it to her mouth.

"I suppose I mustn't keep him waiting then." I take three deep breathes before rising to exit out of the room. "Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck." She pinches my cheeks bringing colour to the surface. "Beautiful."

"Do you know about this meeting, Nurse?" I inquire sheepishly. "If you knew anything about it you'd tell me?"

"Of course I would tell you." I laugh at my stupidity.

Of course; she is lying.

* * *

"Brother." I greet as I enter his office. It smells of wine and dust that had flown in from the open window. "Machiavelli." I'm shocked to find him with my brother for the second time in matter of days.

"Please sit down," He gestures to an empty chair. "Dear sister."

I place myself in the wooden chair next to my brother and remain silent. I doesn't matter if I speak or not, I am not in charge of the conversation.

"Machiavelli has been," he searches for the words to finish his sentence. "Informed of a position."

"A position for me?" My brow folds as my gaze leads from one man to another.

"Yes." My brother beams as though he os blessed by news from the Archangel Gabriel. "A grand position."

My heart hammers in my chest. "Where is this position?"

"Rome." He reports to me.

"Rome." I repeat astonished.

"It is a great prospect for the House of Medici." Machiavelli tries to lower the tension that is raising in the room like a soft breeze flowing through a window.

"And you care so much for the house of Medici." I snap but his smirking face told me it was no good. Machiavelli loves the Medicis and his love for my father secured that in my heart. "Perhaps you do. But you," I revolve my head to face my brother. "You hate Rome, our Father hated Rome. Medici's are bred for Florence."

"Father knew Rome was necessary to survive." Piero argues back at me.

"Yes," I agree. "A necessary _evil_."

"Amara," Machiavelli calls my name grabbing my involuntary attention. "You are right. Medici's are bred for Florence and this is a way for you to secure Florence to Rome."

My heart bleeds. I love Florence, I will love Florence until my last day and beyond that if it is possible. "What is this grand position then, Brother?"

"The Pope's son – the Bishop of Pamplona – wishes to take you as a ward."

"You say it like I have a choice." I find amusement in his phrasing. "Do I have a choice?"

"No." He answers solemnly.

"So I'm to be sold," My anger raises again "Like a sheep at market?"

"Do not think of it like that." My brother advises.

"Then how am I to think of it?" I rage. "And to be left in the care of the Pope's son? What sort of Pope has a son?"

"You forget our _Father _married our sister Maria to Pope Innocent's son." He reminds me in a scolding tone.

"So you want to become our Father?" I accuse him. "It does not bode well with fate to try and repeat the past. I'm sure Machiavelli will tell you that." They both remain silent and I continue, it is unlikely they will remain voiceless for long. I am young and they are wise after all. "And anyway our sister has fled Rome now."

"Which makes this alliance even more important." Machiavelli inputs for my stunned brother.

"Why can Antonia not go?" I do not want to be sent away from my Florence, I would rather sell my sister to the dogs than leave it. "She is older than I and more influential. I am sure that the Pope would prefer her to be in the care of his son."

"Machiavelli has found your sister a great match in Piero Ridolfo."

"Our sister." I correct. "Do not get too far ahead of yourself, Brother; even you are not above blood ties."

"Your sister indeed." Machiavelli smiles. It is a strange and unnerving sight. "Amara, the Pope asked for you specifically."

My head races. Why would the Pope care for me? I'm not important and although not ugly I still not a notorious beauty. I am no Belle.

"What house is this Pope from?" I shrug biting my lower lip.

They look at one another with a face of concern. It rest upon my brother's face more than Machiavelli's who is used to the temper tantrums of alliances. Then Machiavelli – since my brother was too much of a coward – utters a word that fills me with dread:

"Borgia."

* * *

"Borgia!" I exclaim to my nurse once back in the safe confinements of my apartment. "Can you believe it? A Borgia Pope!"

My nurse nods sewing a floral pattern onto a cushion and not paying very much attention to me. I don't notice of course. I am too caught up in myself.

"And I am expected to be the ward of this Borgia's son? What Pope has an illegitimate son in our Holy Mother Church? It's an abomination."

"Is it an abomination to love?" My nurse questions with a smirk.

"No," I chuckle at the mere thought of it. "Of course not."

"Then how is this different?"

"But surely you have heard of the horrible things that spew about the House of Borgia?" I cry in an effort to rally her to my side.

"I have." She nods. "But Italy is fuelled upon rumours, my Love. They are often twisted along their way to our ears."

"But a Borgia." My voice has sunk down but the outrage still lies underneath. "The name strikes fear into the heart. Don't you agree?"

"It has the ability to do so, my sweet." She continues poking holes into the material on her lap.

"But?" I prompt.

She inhales deeply and sets her sewing beside her. "It would be a good opportunity for you."

"But to sell myself to the unholy family for a 'good opportunity' is not good?" I purse my lips feeling defeated.

"This world is what we make of it." She teaches me rising for her chair to take my head between her hands.

"How does it work?" I ask in a small voice. "Being a ward?"

"You will live where he tells you, he'll provide you with an allowance, and when the time comes find you a husband." I find myself criminally uninformed.

"So my brother won't be in charge of anything to do with me then?" My insides twist. "I have truly been sold in all but name."

"Come here." She studies me with those blue eyes once more. "I promise you that everything will be well." She clasp her soft hands in mine and twirls me into the wooden stool that sits in front of my dressing station.

"I think I shall be able to be a ward." I resolve once she starts combing through my wavy hair. "Although I would prefer to stay here."

"There are situations you must prepare yourself for." She says the words so nonchalantly I am not prepared for what will happen next. "Romantic situations."

My mouth is dry. I feel a strange sickness inside of me, as though a thousand bees have set to build their nest in my stomach. I am scared, or petrified at the idea of seduction. I do not know how an act of Love is performed. All my knowledge of such an event is stemmed from overheard drunk banter between men.

"But I'm not married." I tell her assuming she must have forgotten that detail. I am to become a ward to a Borgia, not marry one. She must have her information wrong.

"You do not need to be married to be a mistress." I don't understand. I can't be a mistress, I am a _Medici_.

"That's impossible." I have only met one mistress in my life– Lucrezia Donati. She was my father's mistress and she was as intolerable as she was beautiful. I didn't _hate_ her but I didn't _like_ her. My mother often told me we should never hate but when she said it about Lucrezia Donati it was often with an edge.

"How can it be impossible when girls younger than you are married?" I gaze into my reflection moving a piece of chestnut coloured hair from my eyes by tucking it behind my ear. My green eyes sparkled with tears that I blink back. I feel hollow and yet I overflow with the emotion that is crushing onto my heart.

"But they are married." I stress.

"I have heard that this Cesare Borgia loves his sister and would do anything to keep her innocent. He views her as being too young for marriage and since you're the same age as her I doubt he will see you in such a romantic light." I suppose that makes me feel better. I'm eager to hold onto my innocence for as long as possible.

"But when I get older?" I query.

"Yes." I can hear the pressure in her voice. "There is a stronger possibility then. There are cases of wards marrying into their adopted families."

"But I am not old enough for men to enjoy yet?" I try to lay my thoughts out in my head. "Am I?" I do not wish to be enjoyed. It does not sound kind but sad to be taken as such. Not like the gallant tales I read before bed, the ones I base my _husband _on.

"Of course not. Now come to bed." Her voice lulls me into a soft state as she helps me into the sheets that I allow to swallow me. "Think of tomorrow as a new beginning."

It takes me longer than normal to drift off and yet it less time than I expect. I let myself slowly sink into a world of dreams and nightmares.

* * *

And so, as it had been decided for me, I am removed from _my_ Florence. My Florence full of art, sculptures, poetry and life for Rome. Rome which is known to stink to high heaven and is littered with poor unfortunate souls who learnt the hard way that there was nowhere kind for them.

"They say Rome is the pinnacle of the world." My nurse whispers to me as we exited the boundaries of Florence.

I give a weak smile and decide not to remind her that the pinnacle of an object is the most fragile.

* * *

**A/N: so please tell me what you think. It's part of my save the Borgias campaign. Amara is so mary sue in this chapter but it's okay because she's not as Mary Sue as time goes on. **

**My instagram is: The endsofmay (I nearly always follow back)**

**My Tumblr is: Areallifefangirl**


	2. The Assassin

**A/N: So I've changed this to third person just because it will be easier at a later date but if you hate it tell me and I'll change it back. Thank you for the alerts and reviews I hope to upload more now exams are over. **

**The Assassin**

Amara groaned as her head smacked against the wooden frame of her carriage.

She felt heavy. Her muscles ached. She wanted a bath. A bath to slip into, she imagined submerging herself into the intoxicating water. She imagined her nurse complaining that the waters shouldn't be cold, that she'd catch her death. Her lips played with a smile, a smile that flattered as she opened her eyes and remembered where she was.

Amara felt a sudden washed with annoyance. She couldn't have a Florentine bath because she was not in Florence.

She had succumbed to slumber in the midday heat, her black hair gently floating in the wind. Holding her tender head she looked around remembering that she was now a member of Rome.

"Look at the architecture." Her nurse gestured to the sky. She didn't look up though. She couldn't. All she could see were the crowds as they ogled at the satin that draped over her carriage. That was not what the pinnacle of the world should look like. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's not Florence." She mumbled quietly as the large wooden wheels came to a halt.

Her nurse stepped from the coach first with her effervescent character overflowing. She was excited to be in Rome. All the children who had fed from her now had grand prospects and opportunity to succeed. Amara was not her favourite child of the eleven Medici children she had nurtured but she was the youngest, and therefore the only one left to help.

Amara De' Medici placed a gloved hand in her nurses fleshy pale one lifting up her dress to keep herself from tripping. The common folk push at one another to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. She pause her eyes drifting up to inspect the building in front of her eyes. It's tall, a sandy colour, and different from home; taller.

"This is the Vatican." She whispered into the child's ear.

"So the Pope lives here." She confirmed to herself. "I would have thought it would be grander; for God's representative on earth."

"It's said to have magnificent gardens." Amara stared at her nurse before deciding she's was trying to enthuse her. After all her love of nature was well known.

"Yes." She nodded accepting the rumours. "I can believe that."

Amara bit her lip in an attempt to distract herself from the feeling of apprehension twisting away at her stomach and set her foot upon the step. Then another, then another. She repeated the pattern until it looked calm and full of grace. To the crowds below, she have no doubt that it did but to Amara it felt unnatural.

* * *

The room satisfactory and although not laced with paintings like Amara was used to in her chamber in Florence it did have something new and exotic she wasn't used to.

"This will not be your room for long." Her nurse informed her holding a blue dress high in the air.

"Why is that, dear nurse?" She pondered only half interested. The other half of her found itself invested in tracing the patterns on the ceiling.

"Your guardians will move you to a more subtle home after they have met you." The Nurse said the words swiftly in hope Amara wouldn't not catch their true meaning. The young fool didn't.

"Why can they not decide where I am to stay before they have seen me?" She mulled over her words.

She fiddled with the lace of one of the gowns in front of her searching for a new way to phrase her answer. "They will place you were they see best fit."

Amara found herself catching on suddenly sitting up with an idea. "So, if they like me they will put me in a grand room?"

"Yes."

She felt a rush of giddy realisation. "I should like a nice room in this Rome."

The Nurse took my favourite blue dress and lay it over the painted wooden dressing screen.

"No." Amara shook her head. She had an idea. "Not my blue, my purple."

"Purple, my lady?" She sounded perplexed.

"Yes." Amara raised from her place with a happy smile at her Nurse's confusion. "A perfect mix of Medici blue and Borgia red."

The Nurses eyebrows raised high. "Who taught you that?" Perhaps she didn't like Amara's idea. The thought caught her for a moment setting her back. Then, she realised, it didn't matter what her Nurse thought.

Amara had already set her mind.

Amara's feet plodded across the room behind the wooden dressing screen. "I am of Florence. It would be disgraceful if I did not know that." She smiled at the memory of learning about mixing colours. Art was easy in Florence, you couldn't avoid it. Her father would welcome Leonardo Da Vinci himself at their table where they would discuss artistic nature. That was before removing her to discuss battle instead.

"I will accept my fate," Amara De' Medici declared quietly taking the heavy fabric between her fingertips. "But I will also hold onto my past. I am to keep my Medici name after all." 

* * *

"Never, Madonna, have you looked so lovely." Amara's nurse had assured her.

She'd beamed triumphantly at her work. Amara did look beautiful with her hair tied with ribbons, her gown complimenting her olive Florentine skin. She felt like the Madonna herself.

There are moments in life that will change a person's path forever.

Clarice Orsini, Amara's mother used to tell her that. Then, she would sing of gallant tales and tell her of Florence and how the Medici's did not fear.

Amara tried to remember that as she stood in the Vatican's private rooms. She had no familiar faces to reassure her, her Nurse wasn't allowed in with her to meet the Pope and his son.

Amara took a deep breath feeling utterly alone.

Her head coiled towards the sound of the heavy doors opening and the hum of voices. Amara watched, mesmerized by them. The Pope stood in the centre of a red sea, the cardinals. His golden Holy robes glimmered in the sunlight that streamed in from the windows.

They didn't notice her at first. They continued bustling around his Holiness before twisting one by one towards her. Finally, his Holiness turned and beamed with recognition.

"My child." His voice was so rich and commanding it was no wonder to Amara why God had chosen him.

Amara moved slowly making precise movements as she went down on her knees. Then, as she had practiced in her head a thousand times, she kissed the papal ring. Amara stay in her place, head bent. He turned his hands as though he was about to receive communion himself. Amara accepted the gesture and rose.

"Amara de' Medici." Her name sounded like a game upon his lips. A game that only he knows the rules of. The thought caused Amara's stomach to explode with nerves.

"Your Holiness." She greeted not meeting his eyes at first.

"It appears that rumours do not lie when comes to you." She did not know what rumours he talked of but smiled anyway. "We would love to have the pleasure of your company but I am afraid more pressing matters call."

Amara flushed. "Of course, Your Holiness."

"My son, shall see you are looked after. While We are called to the Holy Mother Church." He placed her hands upon his chapped lips to kiss them, bless them.

The sea of red parted and he walked, like Moses parting the red sea. Amara saw him then standing proudly in his black robes. He was darkness personified. His dark hair, onyx eyes, and black robes suited him as he smirked.

Amara found it odd that his father, so holy, dressed in white and gold had a son that stood so arrogantly in black.

They remained silent when the room had cleared. Then, with precise measure Cesare Borgia moved over to the table on the other side of the room. Amara heard the wine slosh as it met the silver goblet.

"Tell me, Lady Medici. What does Florence think of its new papal rule?" Amara tried not to look shocked. It was not a question she had anticipated.

"I do not know." She attempted to stop herself from stuttering. "I was not in Florence under this Papal rule long enough to tell. I could not even tell you what Rome thinks of it."

"You have a good judgment, my Lady." He complimented her. "You don't commit yourself very easily. Then tell me this, what is your verdict of this new rule?"

"God has chosen your father. God sees it fit for him to rule us, I cannot argue with God."

"So it wasn't the college of Cardinals then?" He grinned placing his goblet down onto the wood.

Amara cast her eyes down.

"I forget," His voice commanded her to look up. "What is the Medici motto?"

"_Money to get power, and power to guard the money_." Amara answered with a small smile. He chuckled. "And what is the Borgia's?"

"We do not have one." He said carelessly as though he had simply misplaced it.

"Then you should make one, Your grace." Amara told him lightly while taking a step forwards.

"Is that possible?"

"Anything is possible."

A quiet hush descended upon them and for a moment Amara felt at peace. He held the goblet he was then drinking from out in front of him willing her to take it. She did. Crossing the room Amara gulped the sweet red liquid. It did not taste like Florentine wine but it wasn't bad even with its sweetness.

"My lady." Her head spun to the commotion of the next room. Cesare sighed squeezing his eyes shut. "Would be impossible." The women's voice continued. "That the Pope must be _chaste_, and he must be _seen_ to be chaste!" The Pope stalked through the room heading towards his own private chamber. "Don't you want them to hear," Amara saw her then flying after him. The women that the voice was tearing from. "That you have a _new whore!" _

Amara De'Medici was mesmerized by the sight in front of her. But even more so by the cardinals who followed the couple like hounds lapping up scraps left under a table.

Cesare stirred and charged towards the women. "Mother." He was holding back his scornful tone.

"Farnese." She spat the word out as though it were poison.

"Get out!" The Pope barked the demand while placing the doors closed in the hope of remaining an air of calm.

Cesare turned so his back was facing the door, protecting it. His icy gaze fell upon the pack of cardinals. "What?" He pushed himself forward. "Be gone." He seethed.

"We were…" They stuttered trying to find words.

Cesare didn't listen to them instead he repeated his words: "Be gone." He pushed and shoved them out of the room following them through.

"I banished my husband for your sake!" Her tone ripped through the walls.

"You are the mother of my children." He reasoned back trying to soothe her.

Amara didn't want to listen. Mistresses and talk of mistresses did not rest well with her conscience.

"Be _gone!" _ She could hear Cesare's orders booming. "Out!"

Amara decided that they must fall to her also. Her feet moved from their place where she had stood transfixed on the sight that unfolded in front of her just a few moments before.

Cesare grabbed her arm as she reached the door. "Not you."

"I really don't feel –" Amara strained herself to reason.

"Nonsense." He declared. "You are to stay with the Borgia's you should know their secrets. You are practically a Borgia yourself." Amara knew the words were deliberate to appease her. To let her know that she had a place in the Vatican under the Pope's bastard son's care. It didn't soothe her though. It stripped her of her title, of her Medici heritage.

"It pleases me to hear you say such words, Your Grace but…" Cesare's mama roared again. "Could we please speak of something?" Amara begged knowing he will not let her leave.

"You do not wish to hear gossip?" He sounded unconvinced.

In any other situation she would have loved to hear gossip. She would relish in it, but that day was not any day and she did not wish to hear of the Pope's mistress.

"Please, Your Grace." Amara pleaded once more after turning toward the shouts.

"You are from Florence." He leaned back on the table. "Tell me of art."

"What of it? It is a broad subject, especially for someone of Florence." She spoke crossing the room to get away from the shouting.

"You were painted by Leonardo Da Vinci were you not?" He made it sound like a question but Amara knew it isn't really. He already knew the outcome.

"When I was a girl, yes."

"I am told he finished in days, is that correct?"

"Months." She corrected.

"Ah," Cesare nodded with a gleam. "But he did finish? My brother would be jealous."

"It was a gift, for my Father." Amara didn't like the discussion. Leonardo had worked for her father and she did not want to remind a Borgia of her undeniable wealth. "Leonardo was out of favour with him at the time."

"Over what?"

Amara froze at the question. It was wrong. It should have been 'over whom?' after all they were fighting over her Father's mistress: _Lucrezia Donati._

"I was young. I cannot remember." Amara was used to lying so it came to her tongue swiftly. She took a sip of wine letting the cool liquid mollify her.

It didn't achieve its aim. 

* * *

Amara found Rome different from Florence but no less interesting.

She enjoy walking through the Vatican's halls in the hope of finding some new exciting pathway to follow.

It was on her second day of exploring that she saw a face she had longed to see for so long.

"Giovanni!" Amara's cry echoed in the busy hall.

He turned and squinted in confusion. His legs moved so quickly it looked as though he was flying under his Cardinal robes.

"Sister." He greeted her with a kiss on both her soft rose tainted cheeks.

He scanned the corridor around them before forcing her next to a pillar so he could get a better glimpse at the girl he hadn't seen in years.

"Brother," She seized him in an embrace. "Red suits you."

"Thank you." He uttered but his heart was not with her.

"What is Brother?" Amara inquired with a small smile. "You do not appear well."

"Oh Amara," He sighed. "My sweet sister, why have you been sent here?"

"The Pope wished me to be in the care of his son." She explained. She was surprised their brother had not written to inform him of the matter.

Giovanni's face drained of blood. "Cesare Borgia?"

"Yes." Amara nodded. "He seems kind."

"No, Amara." He corrected her. "No."

"Giovanni, you fret too much." She tried to calm him.

"No." He snapped. "It is you that frets too little!"

"Brother-"

He grasped her face between his hands. "We are in this clutches of the world. It would be wise to flee."

"You are leaving?"

"With God's will."

"Brother…" She said again but that time she did not know how to finish her sentence.

"Our brother has sent you into the wolf's den, little sister." His voice was more urgent now. "And do not doubt that they are wolves, Amara. You must not trust a single word they say, for the lies they spill will devour you."

Amara wished to speak but her dry mouth forbade her from doing so.

"Remember our mother's words little sister: 'Medici's do not fear.'"

"Medici's do not fear." She repeated the words. They seemed foreign to her no matter how many times she had spoken them.

"Pray for me, little sister as I will pray for you. By the Holy God, Amara, pray for this whole infested world."

She watched him leave. He vanished into the crowd without effort. It was too late for her to remind him of father's saying: _'Medici's do not run, we will fight, until our last breath.'_

Amara breathed knowing it would not be her last and therefore she must keep fighting. 

* * *

Amara continued exploring because she didn't want to think and that was what she would do. She would sit alone in her chamber and think about how she was alone in that pit of wolves.

"You." She twisted to the sweet natured voice. "Who are you?"

"Amara De' Medici." She answered softly. They were alone in the corridor that flooded in light. "And you?"

"Lucrezia Borgia." She declared the words proudly with a smile.

In their distance Amara could admire her safely. She was beautiful, there was no denying it. Her hair curled in soft blonde waves. She was wearing a red gown with green embroidery that complimented her. They looked like opposites standing apart as they were. Lucrezia's blonde hair contrasted with Amara's dark locks. Her pale skin was freckled while Amara's was rosy from Florence's rays she grew in. Her sea blue eyes staring into Amara's cat like green.

"Your necklace is intriguing." Amara noted with a smile. Being brought up a lady she knew the best way to treat a stranger above her station was to charm. Not that Lucrezia was truly above her station, not with her bastard status, but that was back in Florence and Amara wasn't in Florence anymore.

Lucrezia beamed with pleasure closing the space between them. "It is a seahorse." She stated me.

"A sign of protection." Amara remarked observing the beauty of it beneath her delicate fingers.

She nodded, her fingers gracing the Golden design. "How old are you, Amara De' Medici?"

"Thirteen." She responded with quiet confidence.

"I am only twelve." Lucrezia sighed. Her brow fell a little but she grinned anyway. "When did you turn?"

"31st October."

"I was born 18th April."

_Nine days after my father's death. _Amara thought but didn't dare to mention it.

"They say only the beautiful are born in April," Amara decided that was a more appropriate response. "To please the Goddess of Spring."

"My brother says we are to be friends." Lucrezia Borgia rejoiced in the fact suddenly, she could see it in Lucrezia's clear bright eyes.

Amara paused but replied within a beat:

"But how can that be when we are friends already?" 

* * *

"Wonderful news!" Amara's nurse exclaimed pushing the shutters open.

She groaned and rolled over into her bed. It was early and Amara was not used to morning wake up calls. In Florence they slept until God told them it was time to wake not at the sound of church bells or nurses opening shutters.

"Cesare Borgia has agreed to take you under his full care." Amara could hear the beam in her voice but she was not sure what it was there for.

Amara knew she should think harder about what the words meant at her silence but it's was too early for her to register the tone behind the nurse's smile.

"You will not need me here anymore." She said the words slowly so Amara could fully comprehend what they meant.

Amara flies up and stared at her. Amara's eyes welled with prickly hot tears, she closed her eyes to make them go away.

"No." she mutter into empty space. "No." she repeat more firmly.

"There is no reason for me now, my love."

"There is every reason for you to be here." Amara erupted with fire.

The Nurse shook her head. "This is your new world," She paced closer to her. "Your new chance, I have no place in it."

"But I will be alone."

"You will never be alone."

"I will." Amara disagreed with passion. "My brother has fled and the other sits in Florence with his new son oblivious to the world around him. I do not know my place here, what is my place here?"

"You are the ward of Cesare Borgia, the son of the Pope of Rome."

"And all this for the good of the family?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"You are a treasure. You may fight for Florence and all that you hold dear. There are many who would kill to be in your position."

"Then place them in it and let me go home."

"I am to leave in one hour." She finalised and ended their conversation. 

The heat of the sun burned down onto the steps of the Vatican and a miserable Amara De'Medici.

The anger she felt helped her stop the tears from flowing but not from appearing in her eyes.

"I have this for you." Her nurse maid turned to face her. With one swift move she reached behind Amara's neck with both hands and attached something. A necklace; she realised. It was made up of perfect singular white pearls and hanging sweetly from the middle was a blue gem. Amara didn't recognise it. "Your mother was given it to me on her wedding day. She said it made her feel strong. She wished you to feel strong in a time you may not. I was supposed to give it to you on your wedding day but…" she did not finish her sentence and Amara knew why. It was because she would not be there for her wedding day. Today was the last time Amara would ever see her Nurse.

"Thank you." Amara's mouth folded around the words.

"It is Medici blue." She smiled. "Your colour."

The Nurse embraced the child. It was a strange thing for them to embark on but it didn't feel bad. It made Amara feel safe in the arms of someone she knew.

"Remember that you are a Medici surrounded by Borgia's." She said the words but Amara understood her meaning: a lamb, surrounded by wolves.

Amara De'Medici remained upon the stone steps until her Nurse's Carriage is nothing more than a dot in the distance. When she was certain it was gone her heart exploded. The floods come crashing down around her and she feared that if she did not steady herself they would wash her away into the depths of Hell.

The thought didn't scare her though; even Hell was better than Rome.


End file.
